Five Gifts
by GhostRelic
Summary: Quick list-type one shot. Kinda fluffy, kinda not.


_**Prompt:**__ 5 gifts that didn't seem like gifts at first_

* * *

**i.**

It's lovely; the robe is an intricately embroidered silky material, in a colour that's not easily discernible in the fading fire light.

With the sincere courtesy that separates Sansa Stark from most highborn ladies, she thanks her new husband for this gift.

Oberyn smiles - one part coy and one part understanding - when he drapes it over the shivering shoulders of his naked little wife. At the same time, he thinks he can _see_ the waves of embarrassment and anxiousness cascading off her.

A wedding in Dorne is cause for celebration, regardless of whether the bride is but a child, thrown into a strange world with strange customs - with a stranger for a husband.

But when he's deposited with her, equally naked, on their bed; he can see, quite plainly, that the girl is terrified. He has heard stories, and can now view proof, of the violence she's lived through; and he will not add to that suffering.

The girl is achingly beautiful, and too many beautiful things have met their end in, and because of, Kings Landing; his wife will not be another casualty.

Sansa watches her husband rise from the bed, dress in a light pair of breeches, and return. This is not what she was prepared for; she's confused. More so when he smiles easily, tucks her in, brushes his thumb over her cheek, kisses her light and soft on the mouth, and moves to the far side of the bed.

He's still smiling kindly when he settles himself in the pillows and keeps her blinking stare.

"Sleep my lady. There is nothing that can't wait."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It is much later that night, _or earlier in the morning_, when she's mindlessly fiddling the fabric of her robe between her thumb and forefinger, that Sansa realizes the beauty of the garment pales in comparison to her husbands' gift of time.

**ii.**

She is not confined in Dorne. She's encouraged and appreciated for the vibrant young woman she is; and is not expected to torch her opinions, or her hopes and dreams.

The freedom is overwhelming at first and causes her physical malady. But she also has eight companions, that span from girls to women, who act as a buffer from her sometimes debilitating apprehension.

The Sand Snakes have adopted a Snow Snake, and it's obvious she enjoys their company, enjoys the new pack she says she's created; Oberyn can't hold back his own smile the first time he sees one reach Sansas' eyes.

Nights can still be a frightening ordeal for his wife, but she has learned that she will not be punished or mocked for her fear.

She has also learned that having an avenue for seeking comfort, whether from her daughters that will only be sisters or from her husband who will always be her friend, is what allows her to begin healing.

Trust is a gift of the highest esteem; and like Dorne itself, Sansa does not offer it freely anymore. But, also like the land that is now her home, when trust is earned - the potential it holds is vast and powerful.

**iii.**

The first time she kisses him, with any amount of passion, is after the feast held for the second nameday she has celebrated as his wife.

His daughters have plied her with as much wine as she can handle, which is laughably little, and it has caused her inhibitions to stand aside and watch.

As he carries her to their bed, she has found the greatest delight in braiding the long strands of his hair that hang within her grasp. She is laughing with such abandon that he has no other recourse than to join her in her merriment.

By the time he has her laid down, they are both near weeping.

Sansa suddenly looks at her husband and in an instant her laughter crumbles. She's eyeing him intently, as if her mind is fighting with itself.

Her hands are still wrapped securely around his neck and, with a voice newly built in confident inebriation, she tells him sweetly, "You're pretty."

Her smile holds honesty, not necessarily humour, as she stretches the distance between them to plant her lips over his. They have shared chaste kisses and equally chaste touches before, but this one sees her hands fisting into his freshly braided locks for control and leverage.

_She can have it all_, he thinks.

When their kiss deepens, Oberyn moves to lay over his wife; caging her body under his. She starts to moan into his mouth before she notices their proximity; that's when she snaps open her eyes in a panic, brings one hand to her throat and frantically pushes at him with the other.

He doesn't fight or question her, he simply moves.

"I'll not hurt you little wife. You're safe."

But his gentle words only seem to terrify her more, and it's the first time in years he's felt rage course, unchecked, through his body. _What have they done to her?! _

He sits back on his heels and watches, not touching her, but within arms reach if needs be.

It's a handful of minutes before Sansa seems to have a hold of herself again, and with it comes a hot flush of shame and embarrassment.

"I'm sorry my lord." Her voice is timid.

"You have nothing to be sorry for girl."

"No." It comes out like a confession, "I'm sorry you had to marry me, my lord."

He smiles a little then, "I didn't_ have_ to child, it was my choice."

Sansa looks away, furrows her brow and worries her lip, "But why?" She raises her eyes up to meet his, still confused, _Surely there was someone better... not broken_. The last thought remains unspoken, but her mind says the final word like the curse it is.

Since being rescued from Kings Landing, it's a term that's been used in conjunction with her name, in tones of sadness and pity. She bloody hates it. And she knows that the man who chose to marry her has heard it said as well; which only adds to her despair.

His look turns thoughtful, almost childlike, "Because not all princes are monsters." His eyes look faraway, like he's talking to someone else in the room, "You deserve a man who sees you as the treasure you are." Oberyn focuses on her again, his smile becoming playful, "However, it is _you_ that has been saddled with a prince more dusty than shiny."

She blushes again, but he's happy to see her smile return - even if it's a small thing, it's a true thing.

"No my lord, I've not been_ saddled_." Her voice is small, "It was my choice as well."

It's his turn to be confused. He tilts his head slightly, "Then the question is returned my lady - why?"

She looks at him with eyes carrying an age and burden older than she has any right to, "Because you understand how much I hate them."

He doesn't have to ask who she means by_ them_.

And when he nods in recognition, in agreement, she crawls to him without hesitation or fear.

Between the two, they have no more tears to shed for their hurt and loss, but in the arms of each other they find their pain halved.

Their choice of one another is an unexpected gift to themselves.

**iv.**

When his wife decides she's ready to consummate their marriage, Oberyn smiles pure mischief and lets her take him by the hand to their bedchamber.

She leads him, removes his clothing, and shyly asks him to remove hers.

They're languid, there is no pressure, no urgency for the act they are about to perform. It allows for the freedom to talk in hushed tones, to touch and explore, to laugh and play.

He takes his time, ensures she's found her pleasure more than once before she beckons him to complete himself with her. He's slow and gentle, there _is_ some pain, but she's quickly moaning past the sting of it, to something more enjoyable.

He watches her writhe and buck, until she opens her eyes to him and he's suddenly drowning in the desire he finds there. The smile she offers to him, so genuine and full of adoration, breaks his heart then stitches it back together with a sense of joy he'd thought long ago put to death.

It's not until he has pulled her as close as she can possibly be to his body and he's moaning her name in the sweet soft skin of her neck that he feels tears on his cheek - they're not just hers.

Oberyn Martell is a man who has lived his life in the name of pleasure, but this is the first time he's ever truly understood the word; and as he lays joined with his girl, his Sansa, awash in her kisses of gratitude and affection, he can see she understands this was a gift they shared equally.

**v.**

He promises he'll not leave her side, and he doesn't.

Through the blood, and the screaming, and the pain, and more blood, he is with her. Holding her, soothing her, and even absorbing her ire - for, apparently, he's solely to blame for every ill-feeling she's experiencing. He takes it with an easy smile and an even easier laugh - though, that only seems to fuel the intensity of his fire-haired girl.

But after hours upon hours of long hard-fought battle, a campaign of the noblest kind, they sit in quiet awe of the tiny victor. Brushing their fingers over downy black Martell hair that comes to a peak, marveling at porcelain Stark skin and eyes that are Tully through and through.

The babe is flawless, but Oberyn is left pausing before entering the solar where his daughters are eagerly waiting, seriously considering how he will tell them they have a brother.

He needn't have worried; the love and protection surrounding the boy is unparalleled, and he already pities the lands and hearts his son will inevitably conquer.

She had told her husband, when her belly first started to swell, that the greatest gift he'd given her was the opportunity to be a family again; and equally his unconditional love - the babe she carried was testimony to that fact.

And while it is true, all of it; he loves his little wife as much as she loves him, their son to a depth in his heart reserved only for his children; the broader truth is in the gift Sansa has given herself.

One that took time, and trust, and choice, and, yes, even pleasure. One that impacts everyone around her, with the magic that is _her._

The gift of allowing herself to survive.


End file.
